Among Fighting Men
by Chris7221
Summary: Sergeant Clark. Canadian Forces, JTF2. The elite. Exceptional record, with excellent scores in training and on operations. Determined, courageous. A perfect candidate for TF141. If she wasn't a woman. Keeping the professional and the personal separate would be a problem. Shepherd wished they had told him ahead of time. Same story, renamed.
1. Prologue: God Save The King

A little background, first of all. I found the lack of inclusion of women in Call of Duty disappointing. White(ish) male, middle-class, yeah, shouldn't be a problem but there is. A while after playing the games I suddenly had a thought that people might have written fanfiction for the franchise. It's odd that it took so long considering I'd been reading other fanfiction for years at that point. So I looked, and there was a ton. Especially a lot of girl-in-TF141 fics.

I'm not going to point any fingers here, but I have yet to come across one I really liked. There are some that are really, really bad, several that are mediocre, and a few that were pretty good but just not to my taste. Common issues including OCs that are excessively immature, sticking them in with illogical plot devices or no explanations at all, and depicting other characters as completely out of character. Lots of over-idealism, lots of borderline and true Sues. Not saying all these stories are bad, some are quite good. But not my style.

I've been working on a concept for my own for a while now, but only recently have I actually gotten around to writing something. I'm writing what will start off as a woman-in-TF141 fic that begins just prior to MW2 and will continue into MW3. I'm trying for plausible and realistic that fits with the universe. One thing I've never seen before is a Canadian woman as the OC. There's actually a very good reason I'm doing this, and it's not because I'm Canadian. The TF141 is composed of members from the UK, US, Australia, and Canada. Of those countries, Canada is the only one that does not bar women from combat roles, including infantry and special forces. Why make up something about allowing women into Rangers when they actually _can_ be in JTF2? Reception to the OC in the TF141 will not be... eh, nevermind. You'll see.

Some warnings, first of all. I'm a guy, and a nerdy shut-in at that, so I don't really know how the female mind works, or details about how women actually live. Second, this fic is going to be darker and edgier than usual. There will be swearing, intense violence, at least borderline torture, maybe some hints at sexual themes. Don't expect any kind of romance, though.

I don't think I forgot anything, so let's begin.

Prologue: God Save The King

**February 22, 2016  
Ottawa**

"_God save our gracious king..."_

Sergeant Jennifer Clark's feet pounded hard against the steel steps as ragged breaths escaped from her mouth. Her hair was slick with sweat, her combats soaked with it. Twenty-nine stories up, one more to go.

"_Long live our noble king..."_

She reached the top of the building's stairwell, where the roof access was blocked by a door. She tried the handle to no avail. She had no picks, nor could she use them in her current state, and no breaching charge. Taking a step back, she drove her foot into the door just below the handle. It tore off its hinges and clattered to the floor.

"_God save the king..."_

There was another, shorter set of stairs to the roof, and a door that was wedged open with a wooden block. Another goddamn flight. Close. So close. Almost there. She forced her way up the stairs and careened through the door, emerging onto the flat roof of the tall building.

"_Send him victorious..."_

Quickly, she scanned left and right. Air conditioners and ventilators, along with a lone satellite dish, covered the rooftop. From her position on the roof, she couldn't see past most of the clutter. Taking a chance, the Sergeant moved quickly toward the edge of the roof, where Parliament Hill would be most visible.

"_Happy and glorious..."_

In a half-crouch, she hurried through the mess of quietly whirring fan units. A click coming from behind one of the ventilators caused her to briefly pause, then change directions and head around the other side of the machine. She raised the Sig Sauer pistol in her sodden, gloved hands to eye level and flicked off the safety.

"_Long to reign over us..."_

The assassin was cleverly hidden by the ventilation unit. He was dressed in all-black tactical gear- identical to the body lying in the pool of blood beside him. The man's attention was almost entirely focused on the sniper rifle he was peering through. It was aimed downwards, clearly not at the assembled crowds but at the monarch in front of them.

"_God save the king!"_

She pulled the trigger, sending a chunk of lead and copper ten millimetres in diameter through the man's shoulder. With a deafening thunderclap, the rifle went off when the man's finger jerked against the trigger on reflex. The Sergeant wasted no time putting several more bullets into the man before he slumped against the lip of the roof, blood pouring from his wounds and soaking the asphalt roof. What looked like a business card, covered in Cyrillic lettering, slipped from a pocket in his jacket. She was too winded to notice.

Jennifer Clark slumped down against an air conditioner. She took out her canteen and drank the entire contents in one go. In the distance, sirens began to wail as emergency vehicles rushed to the scene. There would be fallout- there always was, but the immediate crisis was over.

**Two Hours Earlier**

**Dwyer Hill Training Centre, near Ottawa**

"All right, listen up," the General began, French-Canadian accent strong in his voice. "This is the situation."

"The new King of England is visiting Canada, as I'm sure your are all aware. This has a lot of people worried, and for good reason. Many terrorist groups would like to have the distinction of killing a monarch. One of them is a separatist group called Liberté de Québécois. It's a new group, and a small one, but we've received intelligence that they are planning an attempt on the King's life-"

"What kind of intelligence, sir?" one of the team leaders- Captain Westmere- asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Captain. Came from the American DIA, of all places, and they would not reveal their source. It's reliable, if that's what your asking. And if you are asking what we know, quite a bit. Names, locations, plans. Plans that we are going to put a stop to.

"They're planning an attack on the King's motorcade as he approaches Parliament Hill, and staging out of an apartment building with a direct line of sight to it. It would be logical to assume that they plan to attack directly from it."

The last line had a slight joke in it. Around the room, a dozen men and a single woman shared glances. You never trusted an assumption. Not in this business. Every one of them pushed past the initial shock of the General's statement and focused intently on his briefing. They needed all the intelligence they could get, and then some.

**Thirty Minutes Earlier**

**Ottawa**

"All right, listen up!" Westmere shouted over the din of the helicopter's engines and whirling blades. "We need to make this fast and efficient! If we do our job right, we take these assholes down, nobody hears about it and the King continues with his visit."

He turned to two men sitting near the front of the CH-146 Griffon. "Bernard, Laurent, you sure you don't have a problem with this?"

The taller of the two, Sergeant Laurent, spoke for both of them. "Terrorists like these fools embarrass all French-Canadians. No reservations."

Westmere's gaze lingered on Jennifer a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he signalled the pilot to begin the approach. She knew exactly what the look meant. _You don't belong here. Don't fuck everything up._

"Bringing us into an approach run," the pilot announced. He gently pushed the stick left, arcing the helicopter out of the circling pattern of an observation helicopter and into a steep descent. "ETA thirty seconds."

"Break out the lines!" the Captain ordered, sliding the door on the side of the helicopter open. It was early in the morning, and the light nearly blinded the men sitting across from the door. Outside, the city was clearly visible, with several large buildings right below them and Parliament Hill not far off. Police cars blocked off roads in preparation for the King's arrival.

Ropes were quickly secured to anchors and dangled out the side. The pilot brought the helicopter into a hover over the building, and the team slid down the ropes. It took only seconds for the entire team to reach the roof, and as soon as that happened the pilot jerked up on the collective, pulling the helicopter quickly into the sky.

Jennifer shouldered her C8 carbine, bringing up the rear of the team. They had trained for months and knew exactly what to do. Of course, there was the constant nagging feeling, fear even, that _this time it's real._ She pushed the thoughts out of the way as the team stacked up in front of the roof access. She had a job to do.

In front of her, Captain Westmere signalled to one of the team members, Laurent if she remembered correctly. He quickly picked the lock, gingerly applying pressure with a tension wrench and raking the pins inside with a pick. The lock snapped open and Westmere was moving in before he had even fully removed his tools.

She followed them down, weapon at the ready. Objectively, the mission was a fairly boring one. They knew how many they were going up against- five men, what they were armed with- AK-47s, and where they were- seventh room, fifteenth floor. That didn't make it any less exciting. Jennifer's grip tightened on her weapon as adrenaline pumped through her veins. There could always be surprises. If you wanted to stay alive, you expected the unexpected.

Thankfully, they didn't encounter anyone on the way down. They knew what to do even if they did. Try to calm them down, and if that didn't work, they had other, more extreme methods. Of course, there was always the chance that the civilian might start screaming and alert their targets, or might even be working with them. Normally, they would just evacuate the area, but unfortunately that wasn't an option.

Westmere gave another hand-signal order, and they lined up against the wall, next to the door to 1507. Slowly and carefully, he crouched down and removed a small mirror from his pocket, placing it next to the gap below the door and angling it around. Five men, with Kalashnikov rifles of some description, dressed in hoodies, jeans and balaclavas. They acted casually, one of them smoking, and two of them playing cards. Amateurs. Satisfied, he signalled to his team. _Breach and clear._

On the other side of the door, Master Sergeant Bernard removed four small strips of C4 from his vest. He placed one of the sticky-backed devices on each hinge, plus one by the doorknob before removing the detonator from his vest and signalling ready. The team stepped back from the door.

"Breaching breaching!" Captain Westmere shouted. A second later, the door literally blew off its hinges, for the most part reduced to tinder. Before the smoke had cleared, he moved in, catching one of the terrorists in the head with a short burst from his rifle. The rest of the team charged in, taking the other four down before they could figure out what happened. It was a picture-perfect breach and clear.

"Room clear, move on to the other-" the Captain began before a burst of 9mm rounds tore through his neck. At that moment, all hell broke loose. Holes appeared to rip open in the side walls of the apartment- in actuality, they had been made days earlier and covered with thin paper. More men, dressed in black tactical gear, wearing body armour and carrying submachine guns and shotguns, burst in. They caught the JTF2 team in between and out of cover. Half of them died immediately, ripped apart before they could even seek cover.

Jennifer found herself behind the couch, her side smarting from where a half-dozen balls of lead buckshot had impacted her armour. She opened fire, taking down one of the terrorists before quickly switching targets. There was shouting and confusion all around her that she blocked out. They had no idea who was in charge, coordination had been lost, initiative had been lost.

"What the hell's going on?"

"Captain's dead!"

"2IC?"

"Dead!"

"Who's in command?"

"How many?"

"Half the team!"

"They've got armour! _Merde_!"

"Continue firing, continue firing!"

Their opponents' strategy worked against them, however. The holes in the walls were narrow, and only one person could move through at a time. Once the initial wave had been dispatched, the remaining members of the JTF2 team could focus their fire, forcing the assaulters to stay on their side of the wall or die in a hail of gunfire.

Catching a glimpse of movement behind her, Jennifer whirled around. That movement probably saved her life, a burst of bullets shredding the couch beside her. She returned fire, putting a hail of bullets into the man in the doorway. The vest he was wearing ultimately did him no good- Jennifer's instinctive firing had caught him in the neck and face, blowing it into a mess of bloody pulp. They were flanking them!

"Cover me!" Jennifer shouted, sprinting toward the doorway. About a metre away, she dove and rolled, coming in low. She quickly trained her weapon around, and saw one man making a beeline for the staircase. She picked herself and ran after him. Keying her radio, she added, "One armed hostile headed for the stairs, I'm pursuing."

There was nothing, not even static. Jennifer briefly glanced at her radio and found that a bullet had smashed it completely. The adrenaline in her system blocked out the aching of the broken rib behind it. "Damn it!"

As she sprinted toward the staircase, she fingered the magazine release, dropping it out of her rifle. Reaching for a new one, she found none left in her vest. In the heat of the battle, she had used all of them. "Fuck!"

Jennifer drew her P229 from its holster on her hip and continued the pursuit, dashing down the stairs toward ground level. The man below paused, aimed his gun upwards and pulled the trigger. She ducked behind the railing as bullets slammed into the walls around her. As soon as the shooting stopped, she continued.

There was a burst of gunfire from the lobby, followed by screaming. By the time Jennifer had reached it, however, her target had already made it out the front door, leaving a lot of very scared civilians behind. Between ragged breaths, she managed, "It's okay, I'm with the CF."

Jennifer continued onto the street, which was filled with spectators, from month-old babies to seniors in their nineties. The area was packed solid. Fortunately for the runner, he had a gun, which he fired into the air to clear a path.

"Move, please!" she ordered, continuing the chase. After about a block of weaving through crowds, she saw him go down. By the time she reached him, the man was already getting up. A pair of bullets through the leg changed his plans.

She kicked the gun out of his hands before grabbing him and pinning him against the wall, surprising herself with her own strength. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and the fatigue felt like it was crushing her. The terrorist squirmed and resisted, but a gun to the back of his neck stopped it.

"You are too late," the black-clad man told her as a pair of RCMP officers began weaving their way through the crowds towards the scene. He laughed. "You have missed."

"What the fuck do you mean we missed?" Jennifer asked sharply, anger beginning to well up in her veins. They had been caught off guard, ambushed, massacred!

He laughed again. "You missed! Your monarch good as is dead!"

She pressed the gun even harder into his neck. "Tell me where the real assassin is!"

"_Putain_!" the man spat. Jennifer knew what that meant, and slammed his head into the wall with her pistol in response.

"Tell me!" She shouted.

Behind her, the RCMP officers had raised their weapons. "What's going on here?"

"I won't ask again." In her other hand was her combat knife, pressed against the man's privates.

That seemed to have an effect. "The _gris_ office building! Third one, cannot miss it! On the roof! _Merde_!"

Jennifer sheathed her knife and removed the pistol from his neck. "Thank you. Take him in."

"Ma'am, I'm afraid we-"

She turned, revealing the JTF2 insignia on her shoulder. As she broke into a run, she told them, "No time! Take it up with my CO!"

The office building didn't seem that far away, not until she actually started running toward it. Her legs felt like iron, and sweat was dripping down her brow and soaking her uniform. The office building felt like it was half a city away. And she might not get there in time. She pushed back the defeatist thoughts and focused on the task at hand. She could do it. She had to.

The people in the lobby immediately shirked away from her as she dashed through it. There was a sign designating the door to the stairwell, which she dashed toward and threw open.

Right into a bellhop. It was he who apologized. "I'm sorry, sir!"

Jennifer was already up the first flight, and didn't utter any response, but did hear what he said. As she climbed the staircase, she croaked, "Sir, _sir_? Do I look like a fucking sir to you?" Remembering the first time she looked in a mirror at boot camp, she concluded that she probably _did_.

By the fifth flight, she was wishing she took the elevator. Her legs were sluggish and it probably would have been faster. By the fifteenth, she had to literally force herself to keep going and not just collapse on the spot. By the twenty-eighth, she was stumbling.

No. She was this close, she was going to make it. If this was even the right place, if the other terrorist hadn't been lying- no! She couldn't think that way, not now. She was going to make it to the roof, she was going to peg the bastard between the eyes.

Outside, God Save The King began to play as the Prime Minister prepared to formally greet the new monarch.

_The King's tour has been abruptly interrupted by what is believed to be an assassination attempt this morning. This trip was the monarch's first visit to Canada, in fact his first visit to a foreign country since being crowned. It was the King's intention to visit several major cities across Canada, but concerns for his safety put this schedule in doubt._

_Eyewitness accounts indicate that the shooter fired from a building with a line of sight to Parliament Hill. It is unknown if the monarch, or one of the major figures who was standing nearby including the recently elected Prime Minister, was the target. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the shooter was a member of the _Liberté de Québécois_, a recently formed Separatist group._

_Moments before the shooting, gunfire was heard from an apartment building nearby. The RCMP has confirmed that there had been a firefight, but would not give any further details, including the number of wounded or injured. There was also a confrontation on the street between an armed assailant and a member of the Canadian Forces- its connection to the attempted assassination has not been confirmed._

_Unconfirmed reports also indicate that the shooter was shot and killed just as he was taking the shot or shortly after. It is believed that a member of the military counter-terrorist group known as Joint Task Force Two was responsible. His identity remains unknown, and representatives of the Canadian Forces have refused comment._

_We will continue to report on the situation as it develops. Daniel Gardner, CTV News, Ottawa._


	2. Chapter 1: Worthy of Royalty

I know, it's short, but it's been months since the last update and I wanted to give you guys _something_.

**Worthy of Royalty**

**February 23, 2016  
Unknown Location**

"Sit down, Captain." Lieutenant General Shepherd gestured as his subordinate entered the office. The subordinate in question was a large, tough man with a mohawk and a growing amount of stubble in the same black. It would be against regulations if they had them. He nodded once and took a seat across from the General.

"Is this about the new dossiers, sir?" Captain MacTavish asked. His Scottish accent was thick and heavy.

"You've got it, Captain." Shepherd pushed aside a stack of loose papers to reveal five thin, smooth folders, then picked one up and handed it to MacTavish.

He opened it and began skimming through. The lack of a picture and blacked-out lines were not a surprise, considering who they were recruiting. "Sergeant Gary Sanderson, SAS. Did some wetwork in Afghanistan and Southeast Asia. I've met him, seemed like a decent lad. Hmm, sir, there's a lot blacked out."

"They're all like that," the General told him. "It means these people have been around."

MacTavish nodded and picked up the next file. "Private Joseph Allen-"

Shepherd snatched the file from his hand. "He's already engaged with a special assignment."

The Captain looked at him questioningly, but decided not to press the issue and took the next file. He cleared his throat. "Sergeant Roycewitz. United States Army Rangers. Again, a lot of black, but it seems he helped clean up al-Qaida. Seems all right to me. It's hard to judge a man from a file."

He swapped folders again. "Petty Officer First Class Julio Ortez, Navy SEALs. Hmph. He was one of the men who took down Osama bin Laden. That would make him a little older, wouldn't it?"

"What does it say in the file, Captain?"

He harrumphed as he placed the file back at the bottom of the stack. "Age redacted, sir."

Coming to the last folder, he began reading. "Sergeant... hmm, first name redacted, Clark. JTF2- Canadian. CE in Afghanistan- not sure what that means. More cleanup in Afghanistan, and some domestic counterterrorism work. Oh, so he's the one that saved the King. I hope we didn't pick him because of that, sir."

"No, we didn't. General Leblanc said that he was his best operator."

MacTavish put down the file. "They all seem good to me, sir."

Noticing the contemplative expression on the General's face, he asked, "Is there something else, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, that's fine. Dismissed, Captain."

"Aye, aye, sir." He turned on his heel and left the office, shutting the door behind him.

**Ottawa**

Flashing his badge, the detective lifted the tape and walked briskly into the crime scene. Evacuating the building would have been preferable, but it was an impossibility due to the number of people who lived there, so instead one floor was asked to leave and the apartments that the terrorists had used were taped off.

The scene was gruesome. Although the bodies had been removed, bloodstains surrounded the sketched outlines. Some was splattered on the walls and the decimated remains of furniture. Technicians milled around, searching for, examining, and collecting evidence.

Detective Russel Adams sighed. It had been a long time since he had dealt with a case like this. The last had been a gang hit back in 2012. This type of case was usually easy to solve- few groups had the resources to bring a dozen heavily armed men to a battle, and they left a lot laying around, not exactly having time to clean up.

It didn't make it any less gruesome.

His partner, Sadie Jensen, strode up to him, holding what looked like a bloodstained passport between her gloved fingers. "Russ. What took you so long?"

"Stuck in traffic." The detective shrugged. He removed a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. "Half the roads are closed for the King's visit, the other half are closed because of the attack. Is that a passport?"

She handed it over and he flipped through it. He recognized the face as one of the deceased, but couldn't read anything in the actual document. It was all in Cyrillic. He did recognize one word, though: _Россия_. "So they're Russians?"

"That's what the passport says. It's what their equipment says." Sadie took back the passport and dropped it into a plastic bag, sealing it shut. "The question is whether they're mercs, spooks, or terrorists. Not that there's much of a difference anymore."

"Well, I don't think they're part of any Russian secret operations," Russel replied. "The Russians are cleaner than this. If they wanted the King dead, there would be other ways of doing it. And the objective doesn't make any sense. The political fallout..."

"Yeah, but this is the new Russia. Ultranationalist Russia. I don't know if they care anymore. You're still thinking of the old Russia."

"True," Russel agreed. "So I think mercenaries or terrorists is more likely."

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," Sadie quoted. "Do you know of any anti-British groups in Russia? Last time I checked, the only country they really hated is the USA."

"Well, there are some, of course. But I agree, none big enough."

"So... mercenaries? Question is, who's paying?"

Russel shrugged. "I guess you always end up back at the same question. Who wants the King dead?"

"Who brings their ID to a hit?" Sadie asked suddenly. "Why would you bring your passport along to kill someone?"

They shared a look, and she continued. "Think maybe it's a setup?"

"Hmm, you're right. Why would the LdQ work with the Russian... if they were even involved at all?" He paused. "I think this might go way over our pay grade."

"One way or another, we've got something big on our hands. So how are we gonna write this up?"

He took another look at the mess. "Unknown. Probable terrorism, possible foreign intelligence operation. Better call CSIS on this one."

**Parliament Hill**

Three figures marched through the halls of Ottawa's parliament buildings, escorted by a pair of uniformed RCMP officers and several more discreet agents. Two of them were dressed in suits, one an expensive all-silk Seville Row affair, the other a more modest but still sharp Canadian brand. The third wore the green uniform of the land element of the Canadian Forces, adorned with medals, ribbons, and the three stars of a lieutenant general.

The man in the cheaper suit turned the others. "If I may ask, Your Highness, how will the assassination attempt affect your plans?"

"Please, Tom, no need to be so formal. Not now, in any case." He paused. "I will continue, of course. I think it should be obvious to us both that leaving because of a terrorist attack would be disastrous, appearance-wise, to both our nations. Especially now, in this uncertain world."

The Prime Minister of Canada agreed, "Especially now. I think there are dark times ahead, with the instability in the Middle East. But my main worry, is Russia."

"Ah, yes. That country has changed a little after Zakhaev, hasn't it?" They shared a polite chuckle at the understated British humour. In fact, Russia was teetering on the edge of collapse. Vorshevsky wasn't half the leader Putin was, and the country was falling to pieces under him. Crime, organized and otherwise, was at a record high, corruption was rampant, and large movements, including resurgent communism and ultranationalism, were spreading across the country. "It would be easier for us all if they stopped blaming their problems on the West, I think."

The Prime Minister nodded. "Russia is about to go off, and I'm afraid that we're going to end up in their sights. The United States, definitely, probably Britain and most of Europe as well. I believe that Canada will stay out of this war, but anything can happen."

"Oh?" The King raised an eyebrow. "And do you have a means of ensuring this?"

He didn't bite. Either the Prime Minister was better than they thought or he didn't know. "We cannot fight Russia. We will either settle our differences diplomatically, or it will be a short war."

The King nodded, changing topics. "As I understood it, there was a man, a member of your JTF, that saved my life today. I would like to meet him and offer a congratulations, perhaps even a medal or something more."

The General shook his head and spoke for the first time in the conversation. His voice was low, husky, and bore a slight accent. "I'm afraid, sir, that that is not possible. The nature of JTF2 demands tight compartmentalization of information. Even the Prime Minister does not know exactly who does what." He immediately regretted saying that- he was talking to the King, after all, but those were his orders.

He needn't have been worried. The King had been a military man himself once upon a time, and simply nodded. "I understand. I suppose I will just have to settle for a general acknowledgement of your JTF, if that is acceptable?"

"Yes, sir, I see no problem with that. There is some information I am permitted to release that you can work in."

"Well, then. The speech is still scheduled, correct?" The Prime Minister nodded. "Let's not keep them waiting."

**Dwyer Hill Training Centre**

"Sergeant Clark, the base commander would like to see you in his office."

"Thank you, Corporal." She nodded, and he left. Sighing, she put down the book she was reading- some trashy Tom Clancy novel about hunting Osama Bin Laden- and stepped out of her room. She smiled inwardly. That was one nice perk about JTF2. Private rooms.

She paused in front of the mirror and sighed, not for the first time and not for the last. Her short brown hair was clean at the moment, but fraying in the crudely hacked cut. A long scar traced its way across her face. Her tight olive t-shirt showed off her musculature as much as it did her tightly controlled breasts. Her arms were thick and powerful, as were her legs, and there were scars on those too. Though she would never admit it, she had sacrificed a _lot_.

Figuring there was no point in standing around, she headed out of the ugly grey building and toward another blocky building, this one brown and slightly less ugly. It wasn't a large building, and was nearly empty in the late afternoon. She knocked on the door of the General's office.

"Come on." She did so, coming to attention and saluting. The General waved her off, and added, "Sit down. Shut the door behind you."

"Yes, sir." Clark did as she was told. Though she kept her face a stony mask of indifference, she was nervous on the inside. She always was around the General.

"How much do you know about Task Force One-Four-One?" Major General Leblanc asked immediately.

She suppressed the urge to raise an eyebrow. "Never heard of it, sir."

"_Bien._" He handed her a folder. "I know this may be cliche, but what I'm about to tell you does not leave this room. Understood?"

"Crystal, sir."

"Then let's read you in."


End file.
